Don't Piss Eliot Off
by poestheblackcat
Summary: Rule #1: Don't piss Eliot off. Rule #1a: Do not hurt his team because it will piss him off. Prompt: Five times Eliot did something  for them  they'd never mention and one time the team decided to say thank you.
1. Psychic

Summary: Rule #1: Don't piss Eliot off. Rule #1a: Do not hurt his team because it will piss him off.

Prompt: Five times Eliot did something (for them) they'd never mention and one time the team decided to say thank you.

Originally written for comment-fic at LJ. (Yes, it was a 7-page comment fic. So what? I got inspired, okay?)

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><p><span>One - Psychic<span>

Dalton Rand sat in his jail cell, wearing an ugly orange jumpsuit. He hadn't even seen it coming. Some psychic he was - even if he knew he was a fraud, he should at least have expected it. Well, he had expected it and had made safeguards against it, but his greed had overpowered him, and jeez, when the hell had he gotten so gullible, that he was sucked in by his own con?

But he only had five years, and those could be shortened for good behavior, and with few greased palms, he'd be out of here in no time.

He startled when a guard walked up to his cell door.

"What do you want?"

"You're the psychic. Tell me what I want," the burly, long-haired guard said.

Dalton scoffed. "Now, _that_, you're not getting."

The guard just smiled. "Okay. Come here."

There was something about the guy that made Dalton wary of him, not just because of what he was proposing.

"Come here," he repeated. "I ain't sayin' it again."

Yeah, no, not happening…Though, somehow Dalton found himself standing up and walking slowly to the bars on his cell door.

Then a hand shot out and grabbed the front of the orange jumpsuit. Dalton's face slammed into the metal bars. "You made my friend cry," the guy whispered, blue eyes sharp as flint, "Nobody makes her cry. You're gonna pay for that."

"I'm already in jail," Dalton said. Shit, what was this guy planning on doing to him? And who had he made cry? He'd made a lot of people cry, he thought, then cringed.

"Yeah, sure," the guy agreed, feigning affability. Dalton's face slammed into the door again, harder this time. "By the time I'm through with you, you're gonna wish it was just a couple of years of jail time you have to put up with. I know people, people who owe me, and they're going to make your life in the clink a living hell."

The way he said it made it seem like it was the God's honest truth. He didn't have to be a psychic to know that.

And then the world blacked out as he was slammed into the metal bars of the cell door another time. A broken face when he woke up told him the blow that had knocked him out wasn't the last time he'd "bumped" into the door.


	2. Critic

Two - Critic

"_Yet again, Miss Clive, as the whiny nymphomaniac Blanche DuBois, has managed to turn _A Streetcar Named Desire_ into another train wreck, rivaling her horrendously schizophrenic performance as Portia last summer in _Merchant of Venice_. This critic continues to be amazed by Miss Clive's ability to be cast in such prominent roles in such productions as these. How does she do it? Is it luck? Let us be real, shall we? There is no denying that Miss Clive is a beautiful woman (albeit several years past her first youth)..."_

Michael Rauschblum leaned back from his desk into the plush leather armchair and sighed. Beautiful woman indeed, but a terrible actress.

He stood up and got himself another cup of coffee. He hated late-night deadlines, especially after two hours of complete and utter torture at the hands of Miss Katherine Clive.

Sipping at the bitter brew, he sat back down in his chair and prepared to slave on at his task. Ah, the things he had to do for money.

He reread what he'd written, and nodded at the appropriate parts, until he got to the very end:

"_Behind you."_

Michael whirled around and found nothing. Just shadows. He turned the lamp on to be sure. Nothing. No one there.

Laughing nervously, he read the note again. Then he deleted it, and started writing the rest of his review.

Something made out of glass crashed in his kitchen, and he jumped. "That's it. Get out of my house! It's not funny." He grabbed a heavy paperweight off of his desk and marched into the kitchen. He flicked the lights on, and yet again, found nothing but a pile of broken plates.

Growling in frustration and anger, feeling he was being played with, he stomped back into his office without cleaning up the sharp shards of china.

He nervously checked the computer screen before sitting down, and found that his own words had been deleted and in their place was another note.

"_This time, write a proper review. If you don't, it won't be just dishes that get broken. _

_I'll be watching."_


	3. Hired Goon

Three - Hired Goon

Eduardo woke up in the dark and found that he couldn't move. He ached all over, from the fight with the long-haired man the other had referred to as "Eliot."

He couldn't move. He wasn't tied up, but it felt like he was in a box, a box with soft velvet lining and pillows.

His heartbeat sped up and he began hyperventilating as he realized, _Dios mio_, he was in a coffin.

Then there was a sound. It came from inside the cof- the box, and it sounded like…a cell phone.

He felt around, and found it in his jeans pocket. It took a little more maneuvering to flip it open and get it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"_Hi there,"_ the tinny voice responded, _"How ya holdin' up? This is what happens when you bury one of my friends _alive_ in a goddamn coffin. Understand?"_

"No, no, no," Eduardo begged. "Don't do this. He ordered me to."

"_Orders," _the guy said, _"Sure. Bossman's been arrested, by the way. You gonna testify?"_

"He'll kill me."

"_I could just leave you in there until the air runs out, and then I could forget where I buried you, and not tell your mama and your little sister - what's her name? Maria Elena? Little Lena's never gonna know what happened to her _hermano_. That what you want?"_

"No!" Eduardo protested, panicking. "I'll testify. Just let me out!" He banged against the sides of the coffin and screamed. "Let me out!"

He heard a chuckle at the other end of the line, and then the call cut out.

"No!" he bruised his arms against the walls. They felt like they were closing in, the air seemed too thick to breathe…

The phone lit up with a new text message.

"_We'll see. I'd save my air if I was you son."_

He screamed.

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><p>AN: Is Eliot creepy, or is he creepy? Wait 'til you read the next one.<p> 


	4. Boss, no, make that Ex Boss

Four - Boss, no, make that Ex-Boss

Ian Blackpoole was a disgrace. He was jobless, wifeless, friendless, practically homeless (he lives in a one-room apartment now, since his wife - ex-wife, actually - had taken half his money and art, and the company had taken the rest as reimbursement for the trouble and embarrassment he had caused them), and now, he was scared witless.

Sitting up in his bed, he looked down at the sticky, crimson mess on his bedsheets and screamed.

The statue of the Second David winked up at him from the foot of the mattress. It was the replica; it had to be the replica.

He ran his hands over his face. A small, yellow paper stuck on his sweaty forehead fluttered down onto the red-soaked cotton sheet.

"_Accidents happen. Watch your back."_

It was signed, _"E.S."_

Blackpoole crushed the post-it note in a tight grip and whimpered.

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><p>AN: And Eliot didn't even give him an offer he can't refuse.<p> 


	5. Henchmen

Five - Henchmen

Nate watched Eliot from across the bar. He knew that the hitter was aware that he was being watched, but Eliot hadn't reacted aside from the increased tension in his shoulders and back. He had been having trouble meeting his eyes ever since he'd picked up that gun and told Nate and the Italian woman to run.

He'd been having trouble meeting _everyone's_ eyes since he'd hypocritically revealed that he had conned the team for a full year about not knowing Moreau personally. But Nate knew the real reason behind Eliot's sudden inability to meet _his_ eyes. The two of them and the Italian were the only people who knew what he'd done to all those men in the warehouse.

It was many men that Eliot had killed that day, more than he'd killed in a long time, but not the most he'd ever killed at once. And before, the murders hadn't even been for a good reason. This time, it was for a noble reason; to get Moreau off of the team's back for good. He'd been willing to sacrifice himself for his team, the way he always had been.

But this time, he'd had to kill, instead of knocking out or maiming them, and Nate could see that Eliot was burdened by that.

He was not ashamed, as one would think, of the fact that he had taken all those lives. Every one of those men had done horrible things, as Eliot had said. No, it was the fact that it had been so easy to shed his white hat and be like one of them again, that something once learned could not so quickly be forgotten, that he had shown his true hand to the team, especially to Nate.

But Nate had already known. He'd seen what Eliot was capable of even without a gun, (precision, speed, and strength), and had guessed that with a firearm, he was much deadlier than the others could ever fathom.

Eliot was ashamed that the violent past that he had tried so hard to conceal had finally caught up with him, ashamed of what the team would think of him now. He was afraid that they would turn away from him.

So Nate had wisely _not_ told the rest of the team how Eliot had gotten Nate and the woman out of the warehouse, and had pointedly _not_ mentioned it to him after the ambulance had taken the wounded Italian away.

He kept his mouth shut and wondered if Eliot would ever be able to forgive himself for the man he had been under Moreau.


	6. And One

And One

He began silently cataloguing injuries as he gained consciousness, slowly, as if swimming in a big vat of molasses.

Head, chest, ribs, back, shoulder, make that shoulders, thigh, God, there's a burning in his thigh, someone'd probably stabbed him there again. Twice, by the feel of it. And his back felt like he'd had yet another whipping. Wonderful. Pipe across his ribs, and hung up by his wrists, straining his shoulders. Dislocation in one.

But where was he?

The annoying beeping next to his head and the sterile, antiseptic smell answered that question.

Hospital. He hated hospitals.

Alone?

No. There was someone in the room with him. Two. Three. Four. Four other people. One of them was loud, talked a mile a minute. It took him another few seconds to muster up the lucidity to decipher the words.

"…and then I transferred everything in his onshore accounts to his offshore accounts and that totally meant, 'bomb right here, foo's'…Seriously, y'all? Minesweeper? It's a game? You people gotta…Anyway, then I moved _that _money to one of the team accounts, and made sure it bounced to twenty countries before it got there. And that? That is why I am the best at what I do. All that right there? I'm tellin' you, anyone else but me? Could. Not. Do. It. Nuh-uh. No, sir…"

Hardison, Eliot's mind provided. Oh yeah, and his own name was Eliot.

The scent of jasmine tickled his nose. No, it wasn't the scent that tickled; it was hair. Parker. She was lying on the bed next to him, which should have bothered him a least a little, but surprisingly, it didn't. Much. As long as she didn't poke him.

And the heady, flowery perfume was Sophie. Her heels clacked against the linoleum as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

There should be one more, one more that he had to make sure was safe. Nate.

"Hardison. We appreciate your skills, and we certainly appreciate what you've done for us -" There he was. He sounded fine, slightly exasperated, but that was somewhat of a norm for him when dealing with the hacker.

"Naw, man. Not for the team, per se. For our man here. For Eliot. Right, girl?"

"Yeah!" Parker answered, shouting directly into Eliot's ear. It hurt, the pain in his head making him wrinkle his nose.

"Eliot! He's awake! You're awake!" The little thief bounced on the bed, jostling his ribs and his back and his head and his shoulders, and…

Suddenly, the bouncing stopped, and Nate's voice said, "Parker, get off the bed. He's still hurt."

"Oh," Parker whispered, "Sorry, Eliot."

"Somethin' wrong with you," he retorted. Groaned, more like. He winced at how hoarse he sounded. Apparently, so had the others, because something touched his lips. Opening his eyes, he saw a blurry something that looked a lot like a plastic cup of water, so cracked his lips open and let the liquid slide in.

The water tasted sweet, and the coolness of it felt good going down his parched throat. He blinked the blurriness in his vision away, saw the hand supporting the cup and keeping the liquid inside from splashing out and spilling belonged to Sophie.

He smiled his thanks at her and leaned back into his pillows, exhausted.

"What happened?" he said next.

The team exchanged worried looks. "You don't remember?"

He frowns. "I think I was tortured. Things're usually pretty fuzzy for a while after that. How long was it?"

They looked uncomfortable again. Why didn't they just leave, if being around him made them that damn uncomfortable. There was a reason he didn't let them see him injured if he could help it. They couldn't handle it.

"Two days," Sophie finally said. "We tried to get you out sooner, but first, we couldn't find where he was keeping you, and then we ran into some trouble getting you out of there. We're sorry it took so long."

"But when we got there, I tasered him and stabbed him with a pen - it was a blue Bic ball-point pen," Parker clarified, as if it mattered, "and then I stole his wallet. I wanted to set him on fire but Nate wouldn't let me. I still think he should've. But he let me set his house on fire. I liked that. It was pretty."

He stared at her. Then a thought hit him and he started laughing, very painfully, he might add. The team looked at him as if he was crazy.

"There's something wrong with you," Parker said to him, serious expression on her pale little face.

Eliot stopped laughing, well wheezing, actually, mostly because it hurt too damn much to keep going. "But why would you…? Never mind. Crazy don't need a reason. Got it."

"Because he hurt you." It was Hardison that said it.

Eliot really stared this time. "What?"

"You don't get it? You're stupider than you look," Parker said disapprovingly. "You never let anyone get away with hurting us, so we didn't let him get away with hurting you." She rolled her eyes. "Duh."

He frowned. "You didn't have to."

"Oh, we did," Sophie said, gently placing a hand on his bare shoulder. "Let us take care of you for once, Eliot. It's our turn."

"You don't have to," he tried again.

"But we want to," said Nate, looking down at him with knowing eyes. "So let us."

Eliot dropped his eyes and frowned. Clearing his throat, he said, "Can I have some more water?"

Sophie beamed. "Of course. Here," she said, holding the cup for him again.

"Thanks," Eliot said, and meant it.

"Thank _you,_" Parker replied, and poked him.

"Parker!"


End file.
